Erased
by She's a Star
Summary: Haunted by a creature composed of nothing more than lies. (Vaughn; post-Resurrection)


**Erased**

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** Alias isn't mine.

**Author's Note:** All right, so . . . I must admit, the finale upset me. Lemme tell ya, I hated Lauren with a passion until it was revealed that she was evil. Even then, she kind of drove me nuts. I didn't start really liking her, oddly, until Vaughn found out she was bad and went all psycho. And then . . . she died. And, quite mysteriously, I was slightly distraught. In the blinking-back-tears variety. I am a troubled soul.

And so naturally, I have to write strange fanfics to ease the grief. Or something.

He goes home -- falls into bed, exhausted, still feeling shadows of Sydney's mouth against his own. Things feel surreal, hazy, but he is relieved. He's washed his hands of Lauren, of everything to do with her. It's done.

He has Sydney back, and everything will be all right.

Closing his eyes, he suddenly becomes painfully aware of the scent of the pillowcase -- Lauren's perfume, just faintly, and for a split-second he envisions her lying next to him, her blonde hair fanned out around her, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips as she sleeps.

But it was a lie, all of it; his wife hadn't existed, and there's no need to dwell on it. It's taken care of.

"You'd love it if it were all that easy, wouldn't you?"

He looks up to see her standing before him, her hair pulled back, dressed in a white sweater and beige skirt. Costumed - flawless in the role of the sweet, docile wife.

"You're not real," he tells her, and is surprised by the hoarseness of his tone.

"Well, yeah, not anymore, of course," she replies, and an ironic little smile twists the corners of her mouth. "You killed me."

"I didn't kill you," he argues. "You weren't real. You were a lie."

"Oh, Michael." Her voice is soft as she sinks down on the bed next to him - she brushes his cheek with her fingers for an instant. It's a tender gesture, one so very expected of the person he thought she was. "You don't really believe that."

"The hell I don't. You were nothing like her."

"Her?" she repeats, a light question in her voice. "Who was she?"

"My wife."

She looks down at him, almost sadly - traces the line of his jaw. He wonders why he doesn't push her away; only knows that suddenly he feels that he simply can't. He doesn't have the strength. She weakens him more every second.

"Oh, darling," she murmurs. "Didn't it ever cross your mind that perhaps some of it was real?"

It had crossed his mind, fleetingly, at the beginning, but she'd proven him wrong pretty damn quickly about it. He doesn't tell her this. Instead--

"You would have done the same thing," he says, and even though the words are sharp in his mind, they come out sounding meek and defeated. "You would have killed me the second you got the chance."

She nods in agreement, not bothering to pretend. "I know."

"Then why--"

"I loved you," she informs him. "I loved you, and I didn't even know it. But this part of me . . . there was a peace in it, Michael. I could pretend with you. I could be the sweet little wife who worries about the dry cleaning and darns her husband's socks."

"You never--"

"I wanted that," she says softly, and he looks up into her eyes and sees something foreign. They look sharper somehow - without the sweetness they had during their marriage, or the cunning glint they'd sported later. The intensity is jarring. "I didn't understand it, and I never would have seen it, but I wanted it. Somewhere deep down. And you gave it to me."

"Lauren--"

"My husband," she whispers, fondly, and leans down. She presses her lips to his forehead, genuine and oddly chaste, and for a split-second every pain he's ever felt seems washed away by that single kiss.

"My killer," she continues, and her lips etch the word against his skin.

He feels for an instant as though she's killed him; he can't breathe; the world spins; bullet to his skull.

"Stop," he chokes.

She stares at him for a moment, thoughtful, before offering a barely perceptive nod and pulling away.

"Goodbye, Michael," she says simply.

He wakes up.

Her clothes are hanging in the closet; her favourite shawl is draped over the arm of the chair. Her makeup is scattered around the bathroom, there's an old note scribbled to him on the desk - _"M., had to work late, sorry about dinner - get takeout? xoxo, L."_ - the Nora Roberts novels that she loved (_a guilty pleasure_, she'd sheepishly confessed) piled onto the bookshelf.

He can smell her perfume on the sheets, and he knows that some things can't just be erased.


End file.
